


when my love for you was blind

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sami leaves Real Madrid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when my love for you was blind

**Author's Note:**

> A sort-of fill for the [footballkink prompt](http://footballkink.livejournal.com/1050.html?thread=1210394#t1210394): ' _h/c and angst about Sami leaving and Sami reassuring his lover that he's not going anywhere_ '. Ended up being a lot of hurt without much comfort. I have no excuse for this, honestly.

The news breaks on a Tuesday in late August. Everyone acts like they're shocked—surprised—sad. Everyone except Mesut, because Mesut has known since Friday, when Sami lets his fingers brush Mesut's cheek as he comes back from the kitchen with dessert.

"So I got this email today," Sami says, setting the almond cake in the middle of the table for them to share.

Mesut can't remember the last time he's had dinner with Sami and _not_ shared dessert. It's just one of those things—like the way Sami holds the door, sometimes, or drives Mesut to and from practice, buys him scarves and extra-thick gloves, because he knows Mesut gets cold easily. Sami hugs him like Mutlu used to, warm and firm and one hand ruffling his hair. Maybe Sami misses his brothers, too.

His cheek is still tingling with the warmth of Sami's hand as Mesut digs into the cake. "An email about what?" he asks, taking a bite. "Oh. This is good."

Sami smiles. "It's from Luna."

"The email?"

"The cake. Miel de Luna is a bakery." A slight pause. Then, almost too quickly for Mesut to follow, "I got an email from management, and I wanted to tell you because I'm probably leaving next week."

Mesut blinks. "What?"

"I'm leaving Madrid," Sami says.

A window is open, and a light breeze winds its way through Sami's house. Mesut can hear the faint beat of music coming from the living room, where they left the PS3 on with the game still on pause.

It doesn't make sense.

"I wanted to let you know first," Sami says, and that makes even less sense.

"Why would they let you go?" The words are past his lips before he can think about it. Mesut takes a moment to reconsider. "Do _you_ want to leave?"

Sami shrugs. "It's probably for the best. They'll have the Nuri deal locked in by Monday, so they won't need me here anymore."

"I need you here." Mesut looks down at his plate. He needs to work on this not-thinking-before-speaking thing. When he raises his eyes again, Sami is wearing a crooked kind of smile.

"That's sweet of you." His tone is light, but Mesut can see how tightly Sami grips his spoon.

"I didn't," Mesut begins. _I didn't mean it that way._ But he can't bring himself to say it. Saying it means acknowledging that _that way_ might be exactly how Sami wants it to mean. Saying it means making it real.

"Are you going back to Germany?" he tries instead.

Sami nods, "Bayern," before Mesut can even ask. "I'll make sure to say hi to Marko for you."

"I can call Marko myself."

"I don't want us to fight about this," Sami says after a moment. "I just thought I should tell you first."

They finish dessert in silence. Mesut steals glances at Sami's face and imagines asking, _How could you?_ But that's a stupid question, because he knows how. Sami hasn't been doing well. A string of injuries at the start of the season, rampant rumors during January, being benched for most of the spring. And now, this.

Three summers ago, they had all the world in the palms of their hands. And Mesut has always thought if you just wanted it badly enough, you can reach out, and dreams would become solid like trophies raised high above your head.

But Sami reached out with both hands, and still things keep slipping through his fingers. That's the part that doesn't make sense.

He helps Sami clear away the dishes afterwards, and Sami says, "Leave it in the sink. I'll clean up later. Want to watch something? Sergio lent me some movies. I think he still thinks I'm culturally inept because I haven't seen all the telenovelas he likes."

Mesut can't help the smile as he trails Sami to the living room. Sami gathers up the stack of DVDs. Mesut lets his eyes linger, for a moment, on the virtual match frozen on the TV screen. Bayern vs. Real Madrid. And now it might be real.

"I don't even know what half of these are," Sami is saying. Mesut saves the game, powering off the PS3.

They quickly set aside all the chick flicks. Sami passes over the sci-fi movies. Mesut vetoes the dramagedies and the ones whose back-cover summaries he can't understand. ("They didn't teach us this kind of Spanish for talking with the team," he mutters. Sami just laughs at him.)

In the end, they decide on _Gladiator_.

"We've watched this like a million times already," Mesut says, not even pretending to read the opening text. He already knows it by heart (Sami probably knows it by heart in German, English, _and_ Spanish at this point).

"You told Cris it's your favorite movie."

"It's the only title I remember, usually."

Sami nudges his shoulder, "Are you going to fall asleep during all the talking parts again?" Mesut rolls his eyes, doesn't even dignify that with an answer.

He pays attention for the entire opening battle scene, and most of the plot-ful talking afterwards. But by the time Lucilla starts having awkward tension with Maximus, Mesut can feel his eyelids getting heavy. He puts his head on Sami's shoulder.

On screen, Lucilla says, _Do you think me heartless?_

"You have no attention span," Sami whispers, somewhere above his head.

Mesut makes a face that he knows Sami can't see. "She keeps _talking_. And then—look, she stops him. Again. This whole part is too long."

"But it's important."

The screen darkens as the scene shifts. Mesut closes his eyes against the sudden silence. Sami's shoulder is warm beneath his cheek. He feels more than he hears Sami sigh.

"Here, you'll get a crick in your neck like that."

Mesut lets himself be dragged closer until he can settle comfortably against Sami's chest, Sami's arm curled loosely around his waist.

It's just another one of those things—things like inviting Mesut over for dinner and buying cake from a fancy bakery. Playing video games, one minute, then asking Mesut if he prefers white sauce or tomato on his pizza, the next. Because Sami keeps _doing these things_. Like dinner. And movies. Letting Mesut cuddle against him on the couch during movies. After movies. When it's been a long day and he's just tired, but doesn't want to leave. Not just yet.

He can feel Sami stroking his hair, almost absent-mindedly. This is weird, he knows. This is definitely not normal. But it's nice.

"Who am I going to watch _Gladiator_ with if you go back to Germany?" he wonders out loud.

Sami goes very, very still.

"I don't really want to talk about Germany," he says finally. "I told you, and now you know. Let's move on. Okay?"

The tone of his voice makes Mesut sit up. Or try to, rather; he doesn't get far with Sami's arm still around him, holding him in place. He looks up, and Sami's face is turned toward the TV.

"I'm not trying to pick a fight," Mesut says.

"And I don't want to talk about it."

"You're the one who brought it up." His pulse quickens, the words tumbling through his veins. "You invited me over, then you say you're leaving and you want me to know first. What's that even supposed to _mean_?"

Sami's voice is tight. "Do you want to watch the movie or not?"

Mesut grabs the remote and turns down the volume. The soundless images flicker oddly across Sami's face. Across both their faces.

"I want to know why you're leaving," Mesut says.

Sami pulls away from him. "You're driving me fucking insane, you know that?"

Mesut doesn't know. He just knows that Sami is leaving, and it's his fault. As afraid as he is of what all these _things_ might mean, he's more afraid that it might change.

His mouth feels dry. He wants to tell Sami, _Stay,_ and _Let me change your mind,_ and, _It's not my fault you're in love with me._ But he can't get any of the words out.

Sami is tense all over; he tenses even further when Mesut touches his elbow. Mesut threads his other hand through Sami's hair to stop his fingers from trembling. He gets one good look at the wary—disbelieving—hopeful—look on Sami's face. Then he closes his eyes and presses their lips together.

A voice in his head is screaming in protest. Mesut focuses on his own heartbeat instead: one, two threefourfive— Sami's beard is scratchy against his skin. There's a hand firm at the base of his skull, supporting, drawing him in closer— _oh god_ —and then Sami is kissing him back. Mesut tells himself to breathe.

It works, almost. He manages to hold it together until Sami's other hand slips under the hem of his t-shirt, fingers skimming the top of his jeans and—

Mesut recoils at his touch.

Sami backs off immediately.

Mesut can feel his face burning. He wraps his arms around himself and stares at the floor. The movie is still playing.

"What," Sami starts, then stops. "Why did you do that?"

Mesut bites his lip. "You said I was driving you crazy."

Sami walks around the couch and switches on the lamp. The light spills yellow over his arms.

"And what," he says, very slowly, "did you think I meant by that, exactly?"

"I just." _I didn't want you to leave because of me._

"I didn't know you were into that."

"I'm _not_." There's something like panic ringing in his ears. Mesut tugs on his t-shirt to straighten it. It's hard to think. "I'm not into guys. You shouldn't, either. It's wrong."

Sami makes a sound of disbelief. "You have got to be kidding me."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. And I want to know why the fuck you did that."

"I want to know why you're leaving."

Sami throws his hands up. "Those things have nothing to do with each other!"

"You always act like you're my boyfriend!" Mesut bites his own tongue. Too late. The words crowd against the back of his teeth like water behind a dam. He hears himself say, "You keep doing stuff like this and telling me these things and _I don't get it,_ okay? I don't know what you want from me."

"Have I ever pushed you?" Sami asks. "For anything?" His voice rises with every successive word, "Have I ever, _ever_ pushed you to do anything you didn't want?"

"No, but."

"So what made you think I wanted this?" Sami isn't shouting. Not quite. But Mesut can see his shoulders shaking, the tightness around his eyes.

"I don't want you to leave," Mesut says. His voice sounds small, even to his own ears.

"This is not about you!"

"I didn't mean—"

Before he can finish, Sami turns on his heel and walks away. Mesut hears a door slide open, then slam shut. Silence follows. There's a pressure building behind his eyes. He covers his face with his hands, pinches the bridge of his nose. It doesn't help.

He wants all of this to be over. It's like some horrible game that just won't end. There's no one to blow the final whistle. No one to clap him on the back and say, _We'll get them next time._ There isn't a next time, with this. He doesn't even know how to explain _this_. He needs something convincing. Something that puts two and two together. Something that makes sense.

But there's nothing. Just the knowledge that it's true, that it really isn't about him, even if he wants it to be. Even if it's now or never. Even now.

Eventually, he picks himself up off the couch and goes outside. Sami is sitting at the edge of the veranda, his back turned to the house. The stars are out, but the lights by the pool are brighter, lending everything a blue-ish hue.

Mesut hovers for a moment before sitting down a few feet away from Sami. "Hey."

Sami doesn't look up. "You're still here."

"Are you mad at me?"

"Do you think I should be mad at you?"

"What?"

Sami shakes his head. "Forget it."

Mesut waits for Sami to yell at him again—or maybe throw him out, tell him to just leave and never come back. Someone should be talking. One of them should be saying something grand at this point, Mesut thinks. A speech. An apology.

 _I'm sorry,_ he thinks, and Sami says,

"I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"No, I shouldn't have," _kissed you_ , but he can't bring himself to say it out loud. "I'm sorry for making you mad."

Sami looks up at the sky. "Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Do you really think it's wrong?"

"Yes," Mesut says immediately and hates himself a little for it. Hates himself even more when Sami laughs a humorless laugh and asks,

"So what do you think of _me_ , then?"

And that's been the problem all along, hasn't it? Because they've been flirting with disaster for all this time, and Mesut has always known. Too scared to admit it, but he's always _known_. Because he likes it when Sami holds the door for him and cooks him dinner and hugs him too tight, like no one else ever has. Because he likes Sami—he likes Sami a lot—but that's where it ends.

He wonders if it really is too much to ask, to want this without having to want any more than this.

"I think," he says eventually, "you're my best friend. And it's going to be lonely here without you."

It's not really an answer, but it's the truth, and that's the best he's got right now.

The hand on his elbow startles him. He was so intent on staring down at his own feet, he never even heard Sami get up. Sami offers his hand, and Mesut takes it. Pulls himself to his feet. Sami doesn't let go, even after they're both standing.

He says, "You'll still have Cris and the others."

"It's not the same."

"I know," Sami says and wraps his arms around Mesut.

Mesut folds himself against Sami's chest. This should feel weird, Mesut thinks. He should feel repulsed. He should probably be scared, even, or at least a little wary. But he's not, because this has never been anything but perfect and right.

He fists his hands in the fabric of Sami's shirt. This is _right._

He feels Sami press a kiss to the top of his head, whisper, "I'm sorry," before letting him go. Mesut blinks up at him, and Sami says, "You'll survive, I'm sure. Somehow. Yeah?"

The cheerful tone of Sami's words is painfully fake. It's a tone that invites—begs—agreement for the sake of agreement. A nod, a shrug, a _Yeah, we're cool,_ and just move on. But he doesn't want to move on.

Mesut runs a hand through his hair. Turns and takes a few steps away, retraces his steps until he's facing Sami again. It keeps coming back to this. He takes a deep breath.

"Can I ask you something?"

Sami smiles faintly. "Seems only fair."

"Are you in love with me?"

He holds Sami's gaze, this time, holds it through the silence and the watery light. Sami makes a motion, as if reaching for Mesut, but changes his mind halfway. Mesut grabs his hand instead. Threads their fingers together.

"Maybe in a few years," Sami whispers, "I won't be anymore, and I can tell you then."

"But you just—"

"Pretend I didn't." Sami pulls him closer by their entwined hands. "It doesn't change anything, does it? It's complicated, but I can deal with complicated on my own. As long as _we_ 're still okay."

There's a moment, as Sami watches, waiting, when Mesut wants to tell him, _You deserve better,_ and, _Stop doing everything alone,_ and, _Expecting less doesn't make you any less disappointed, you know._

The words are on his tongue. He could say all these things. He could squeeze Sami's hand and tell him any of these things. It might change everything. It might fix this. Or it might not.

Mesut forces his fluttering heartbeat down.

"Of course we're okay," he says. "There's still Euros. I'll be seeing you around."

"Right." Sami lets go of his hand. "We'll be okay."

They speak no more of it. The news breaks on Tuesday. Sami flies out to Germany that same day and is back by Wednesday night. It's all over by Thursday morning. Mesut spends an indecent amount of time that week dodging reporters and drafting—by hand—very precise answers for when he'll actually have to face the press. It will happen eventually, and when that time comes, he will look past the interviewer's left ear and rattle off his talking points:

 _It's what he wants, and his decision is respected. Everyone has to follow his own path. The team will miss him, but Real is more than any one man._

So this is how it will end. Mesut will go to practice tomorrow, and Sami's locker will be empty. Cris will offer to warm up with him instead. Angel will ask him if he's okay, and Mesut will lie.

On Sunday, he will drive Sami to the airport. They'll hug, one last time, in the car. Then Sami will take his carry-on bag and smile crookedly as he says, _See you._

He won't look back.


End file.
